


Red Eyes, Take Warning

by im_hopeless (AnimeWarrioress359)



Series: Deadeye [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: BAMF Jesse McCree, Deadlock Jesse McCree, Drabble, Gen, Pre-Overwatch, Supernatural Deadeye, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 11:49:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19356445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnimeWarrioress359/pseuds/im_hopeless
Summary: The last sight you ever see in your godforsaken life is the smoking barrel of your executioner’s revolver and the devil’s own red eye glaring right into your very soul.





	1. The Devil's Red Eye

Fredrick "Ricky" Gordans was hitting it big time. Deadlock had just secured a mother load of a payload and Ricky could already taste the ritzy cigars and the expensive bourbon he would be splurging his future credits on. 

Sure the cut he was getting was only a miniscule fraction of what the payload was worth and there would forever be a greedy corner of his heart grinding away in frustration that he wouldn't even see an extra dime of that money, but that smouldering burn was an angry old friend and rarely did he find himself parted from it.

Ricky surveyed the celebrating Guild Hall that was Deadlock from the rock it was built on, to the insignia etched into the Guild Hall's brass doors, to the raucous vulgar killers that populated the ramshackle building that doubled as a conference hall and a dive bar. Ricky hailed over the bartender (a crusty old curmudgeon known only as Bartender which was just the way the leathery old bastard liked it) with a howling holler to keep the booze ever flowing his way.

It didn't take long for a new jug to sail across the wooden countertop and clean into his open waiting hands. With thirsty snatching fingers Ricky grabbed the clouded glass jug and chugged down the alcoholic brew. He was just about to tune back into the bawdy jibber-jabber he had only been paying half a mind to when he momentarily caught the eye of the newest Deadlock gang member who had been staring at him from across the room.

Automatically, Ricky felt a sneer spread across his face. His lips curled in disgust as his eyes narrowed with disdainful ire at the sight of the rookie's presence. Then they filled with a piggish drunken rage when Ricky's black look was answered with a slow, wide shit-eating, shit-stirring grin before Ricky was casually, arrogantly, dismissed from his sight.

Abruptly Ricky got up to teach the little shit a lesson. He took a moment to luxuriate in the stench of fear that was wafting his way from the other gang members even as he felt a spike in rage from lack of notice from his latest piñata. He was one of Deadlock's most senior members, this pissant’s superior, and a giant of a man besides. 

The brawn of his arms was the size of the rookie’s goddamn head.

Ricky charged into point blank range, bulldozing over and knocking down whatever, whoever obstructed his way. His meaty bell-ringing right hook was raised and already in striking motion when his target finally took notice of the commotion behind them and turned around. At the sight of Ricky's looming figure they flinched, hard, their body a blur of motion.

And then came a drill of pain. 

Ricky stopped dead. A bullet had landed square between his eyes. A trickle of blood leaked round the piercing bullet and crimson drops trickled down his forehead.

Everything quickly went black for Ricky. The last sight Frederick "Ricky" Gordans ever saw was the smoking barrel of his executioner and the devil’s red eye glaring right at him.


	2. Unlucky Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unlucky year thirteen just so happened to be a year of many firsts for one Jesse J. McCree.

Upon his thirteenth birthday Jesse had three firsts; his first taste of drink, his first taste of Deadeye and his first taste of murder.

As shit luck would have it, most of them even occurred on the same unlucky night. Guess that's what happens when the Devil has his Eye on you.

Once upon a time when Jesse's usage of razor was still more in theory than in practice, the boy had been sitting on a bar stool, near the back of Deadlock, and trying to find the delicate balance between being unobtrusive and seeming undaunted. Even with faking an extra two years older Jesse was still having a hard time racking up respect without pissing all over people's boots and stomping on their toes. Few people minded being shown up by folks decades younger than them and Deadlock gang members were not one of them.

At only thirteen years old - just turned because today was his birthday - although lying an age of fifteen Jesse was still undoubtedly the youngest full member of Deadlock - by far. He just got the ink last month that marked him as one of them, as Deadlock. It had been part of his initiation to becoming a real full-fledged member, his promotion from being a dime-a-dozen lowly runner like the other teenage punks scrapping at Deadlock's dust trails.

Deep in thought Jesse slowly and steadily drained his jug of beer, the alcohol killing his tongue’s distaste for it by sheer persistent familiarity. Familiarity was one helluva powerful thing. A man can get used to the things that are bad for him, the things he don’t even like, simply because they hang enough around like the bad stinking smell that hangs around shit. And rotting corpses. And often them nasty smells like to come together in one foul package.

People talk about bloody corpses but they never mention the shitty ones. Weird that. Both the fact that corpses shit themselves and the fact that no one ever mentions that tidbit Jesse mused to himself, as he tipped back the jug to drip the last remaining drops of drink into his arched and parched throat. As the final swill wet his tongue Jesse brought his head back down to earth from its stretch for the sky, his clenched hand clanking down the empty jug onto the wooden countertop he was sat behind.

Jesse stared unseeingly across the jubilant hall. Unseeingly right into the eye of one of his superiors.

With a well-hidden start and not wanting to make it seem he had been challenging the man, Jesse tried to give a charming sheepish grin. Unbeknownst to Jesse, drink had turned his charm to grease and had made his smile mighty condescending. When Ricky volleyed his smile with glaring daggers, Jesse quickly looked away. But Ricky glared at everyone, Jesse shrugged to himself, a mean mug that one had. He turned back to his drink and stared morosely into his empty jug. Maybe a sad enough stare might rouse the jug to pity poor Jesse and give the boy some more? Please Jug, I want some more. MORE?! Yes Jug, some more, Jug. THERE SHALL BE NO MORE BOY! 

Ha! ~Drink has made me stupid~ Jesse giggled to himself ~I think I'm tipsy~.

Drink had lowered Jesse’s guard. With his back turned and no longer facing or seeing Ricky, Jesse thought himself safe. So it took awhile for the commotion behind him to wriggle its way past his drunk laden senses and to the forefront of his sloshed mind.

Jesse, with tipsy curiosity, peered over his shoulder.

'FUCK!'

Ricky was right there, point black, eager to make him bleed. It was a lightning strike of panic, his heartfelt eloquence barely had the time to flash across Jesse's mind. 

But then the Devil made a puppet out of Jesse.

The revolver was smoking, and Ricky was dead, bleeding on the ground with a bullet square between eyes. Jesse had to lower his raised arm, but he was too tense to take his finger off the trigger. He had just killed a man with a single headshot, point-blank. His heart was thumping in his throat, his ears roared with silence, his eyes had an itchy burn. It was pindrop silent and the tension was making Jesse's nerves live-wire. 

The rope taut silence frayed. It snapped. One mindless murderous mob surged forward towards the lone boy.

BANG BANG BANG.

Thud.

Three corpses dropped to the floor as one.

"!" Skewering his eye, pain knifed his right eye and Jesse too went down. He crashed to one knee. He could feel the entire hall hold its breath and stare down at his lowered position. Jesse tried to play it off. He stubbornly ignored the throbbing burn in his eye, but he didn't bother trying to see shit out off it, he allowed it to reflexively stay shut. On the floor with four warm corpses in front of him Jesse started, in proper Deadlock fashion, to irreverently pilfer their shit.

Jesse scored several credits, a pack of cigarettes, and a harmonica on his thirteenth birthday. Not bad birthday gifts from the Devil. 


End file.
